Leading Man
by sarcastic rabbit
Summary: Jon thinks he's a movie star. No, not really. It’s turning out to be another one of those days where it’s really, really good to be him.


**_LEADING MAN_** by Imogen

* * *

This story is for my darling Fenella. Beta'd by the awesome Gavin Gunhold. All characters belong to Tamora Pierce, not me.

* * *

Some days it really sucks to be him. 

Jonathan of Conte, newly made King of Tortall, Jon to his family and friends, is fed up and it's barely past breakfast. He's already had the Ambassador of Carthak in private audience assuring him that the latest in a series of attacks of piracy stealing Tortallan citizens, boats and goods is purely the work of a small group of dastardly pirates, uncivilized barbarians all who just happen to originate from Carthaki ports and waters, and nothing to do with his Omnipotent Magnificence the Emperor Mage of Carthak, whose friendship to the crown of Tortall is unwavering as mountains, blah, blah, blah, when Jon's Spymaster tells him the young Emperor Ozorne is secretly paying the pirates to find out how easily he will be able to take Jon's regime for a ride.

Before the Ambassador of Carthak, Jon had a delegation from the grain-basket part of his kingdom which feeds the entire north and his capital city. The delegation was a three-way dispute between the haMinches, the Stone Mountains and the Trebonds, three old and noble houses who heartily hate each other at the best of times. The Stone Mountains claimed that the Trebonds were experimenting with dangerous new breeds of wheat and enhanced fertilizers that were encroaching onto their adjoining lands and overtaking their own strands of wheat at an alarming rate. The Trebonds were calling the Stone Mountains backwards blockheads blind to new farming techniques which had increased their own crop yields two-fold, and the haMinches were disdainfully making comments about hasty tempers and resolving disputes by other methods than bloodshed, while angling for a patent on the new strain of wheat which could then be brokered as a trade item to the nearby countries of Tusaine and Maren with themselves as the dealers.

Having assured the Ambassador of Carthak of his understanding of the situation and granting how difficult it must be for the newly made Emperor Mage to adequately police his massive territory, while maintaining that the Kingdom of Tortall valued the continued friendship of Carthak, blah, blah, blah, and having sent the Assistant to the Minister of Trade and the Minister of Agriculture with a small delegation north to assess the potential of the new strain of wheat, Jon is currently staring at the Master of Protocol who is complaining, no doubt prompted by some of the more stiff-necked members of his court of nobles, about the outrageous behaviour of his Queen.

Jon has the beginnings of a headache starting at the base of his skull, his ass is stiff from having to sit in a dignified position on the royal throne for so long without twitching, and his stomach was ready for lunch about 20 minutes after breakfast. He lets the Master of Protocol drone on while he drifts into more pleasant thoughts, namely, Thayet. It's been 1 year, 3 months and 12 days since they met, and 8 months, 2 weeks and 5 days since they were married; and Jon still can't believe how lucky he is that Thayet volunteered to be his partner for life in this mad venture Jon privately calls "Ruling an Enlightened Kingdom, Stage I" (and yes, there is A Plan). Jon always used to look on marriage as a chore—another of the responsibilities it was his duty to fulfill—but he's never been happier. To be sure, their love isn't perfect. Thayet keeps stealing his knives, insisting that he never uses them anyways. And she teases him about what she calls his vanity, saying that she gets dressed and ready in the morning in the time it takes for him to finish choosing which colour of blue shirt he'll wear that day. But Jon has a good sense of humour and can take a joke at his own expense, even when it's exaggerated for effect.

Jon reluctantly drags his attention back to the Master of Protocol, because he strictly limits himself to how many minutes he can think about Thayet each day. Otherwise he'd be useless in meetings and Cousin Gary would never let him hear the end of it. Clearly he hasn't missed anything important because the man is in full swing. Jon tunes in as he starts going on about the Queen riding out to assess the conditions of Education in various parts of the kingdom and the unwomanly interest she is taking in personally setting up a private mounted force to uphold law and order in the countryside; and how while perhaps the Royals of Sarain are accustomed to being so _public_ and _active_, traditionally the Queens of Tortall tend to take a more private approach to their duties, gracing Court as the leader in Tortallan matters of society, manners, morals and taste; and perhaps the new Queen, while to be commended for her zealous interest in matters of public policy, is unaware as a foreigner of some of the finer nuances of her new position,--

Jon stops the man here with an upraised hand and fixes him with the Look that says that he is a gracious ruler who is always willing to fairly consider viewpoints other than his own while making it clear that he is really quite peeved. (It's a good Look—he took it from Thayet, and offered to give her his own Pretending Attentive Interest to Reports of Royal Inventory While Secretly Thinking Over Matters of Great Importance, but she declined.) Jon thanks the Master of Protocol for his conscientiousness to his duties and informs him that the Queen is undertaking her compassionate and worthy endeavours to improve the quality of life of the citizens in their kingdom with his full knowledge and complete support, and dismisses the man.

Here he tries not to sigh as he looks over at Cousin Gary and his List to see if this morning's business is taken care of.

Cousin Gary says "Your Majesty, this concludes the private audience for today," and he _smirks_, the bastard, "—except for one small matter." Jon privately vows to make Cousin Gary get up early tomorrow in order to kick his ass all over the practice court with some swordplay. Cousin Gary is getting a little soft around the waistline, and Jon is virtuously looking out for his dear cousin's health. The fact that Cousin Gary will hate every minute of it has nothing to do with his decision.

Cousin Gary's List produces a request for an audience with Dean Hairalt of Jon's fledgling Royal University, which is actually more architectural plans than solid brick and mortar as of yet, but for which Jon cherishes high hopes. Ogdon Hairalt is Dean of the Department of Magic, and Jon has Hairalt shown in with the feeling that this morning might not be a complete bore after all.

Dean Hairalt enters; a heavy middle-aged commoner with reddish tufts of hair falling from a far-receded hairline. He's accompanied by his assistant, Junia Danin, a talented mage. She's a curvy woman with graceful carriage and a fall of thick blonde hair. Both are quite distressed. Junia, who's normally upbeat and calmly competent, is nearly wringing her hands, and Hairalt's uncertain temper is in full force today. He's an extraordinarily energetic and productive man: a skilled mage in practical magic, an interesting teacher, and a strong leader and administrator. Jon wishes he had ten more like him but worries that Hairalt's blood pressure will finish the man off before he gets his University Department up and running smoothly. He's purple with rage.

Jon greets his mages warmly and hears out the problem, which seems to centre about a man, a possible Black Robe Mage from Carthak who was supposed to be at the audience with them but is missing.

Jon has two reactions to this piece of news. His first is the desire to laugh, because seriously, a Black Robe? There can't be more than half a dozen of them in the world, and they are rumoured to be both snobbish and reclusive, keeping to their luxurious private houses of study in Carthak at the expense and service of the Emperor Mage. Carthak's Imperial City is the foremost centre of study for magic in the Southern and Eastern Lands, and the Black Robes are the most powerful of their University's Order of Mages. Jon, much to his regret, has nothing yet in Tortall in the way of learning tradition, facilities or riches to tempt any of even the lesser-robed mages to his service. The very thought that one of these fabled mages was to have been in this audience for a _job interview_ with Jon is ridiculous.

But Jon looks at furious Hairalt, whom he trusts to know his business, and unhappy Junia, who keeps trying to apologize "—I only left him for a _moment_; I never thought he'd be _gone_ when I got back—" and who seems very protective of the missing man "—I do hope nothing's happened to the poor dear, could someone perhaps have _taken_ him?"; and Jon's second reaction is for his blood to freeze in his veins, because what if they're right, and a Black Robe Mage from Carthak is missing _in_ _his castle???_

Jon grimly thinks good-bye to his lunch and orders Cousin Gary to carry out a _discreet_ search of the Palace near the holding chamber where the mage went missing. He then questions Hairalt and Junia as to the possible threat the man poses to them.

Hairalt gruffly admits that the man seemed likely quite brilliant but far too young to be a Black Robe, and too innocuous to be a spy or traitor, or so he'd thought. "—Bumbling fool, to tell you the truth, but the stunt he pulled outside my office proved he wasn't lying about being a powerful magic user at least. Thought it best you had a look at him, Your Majesty."

Junia's impression of the man mostly reinforces Hairalt's: "—He seemed like such a nice young man, Your Majesty, though terribly absent-minded, and not very practical. I really don't think he'd harm anyone."

They wait for a tense half-hour until a guard brings in an indignant Librarian, a small grey man with a high voice who complains bitterly about a strange man in the Library who is making fast and free with the books and scrolls and refuses to listen to any of the Librarian's Rules, of which there are very, very many, all of the utmost importance. The Librarian is the same one who used to yell at Jon during his page days about the horrors of re-shelving scrolls on his own—on _no account_ must Jon ever wreck the delicate organization of the scrolls by attempting to put one back from where he took it, but must return said scroll to the Librarian and let _him_ do so—and Jon tries not to wince.

At least they know where the potential Black Robe is. Jon sets out for the Library trailing Cousin Gary, the two mages, the Librarian and several guards. The guards insist on entering the Library first to protect him from any possible trap (if the man really is a Black Robe, four guards armed with swords will be utterly useless against him, but it makes the guards feel better), and Jon sweeps in after them and stops in the middle of the Library, abruptly regaining his sense of humour.

Yes, the young man has evidently been found, and yes, crimes against books have been committed here. The potential Black Robe is an abnormally tall, thin, dark-complexioned foreigner dressed in ragged clothes, his long hair tied back in a thick black horse's tail. He is seated in the midst of several tables groaning under what looks like half the contents of the Library piled in stacks higher than his head. He is reading under the longest pair of eyelashes Jon has ever seen on a man, his bony nose lowered till it's almost touching the page of what is possibly the oldest, thickest, mouldiest tome in the Library, and would likely not notice if Jon had his guards stage a sudden duel to the death right in front of him. He certainly does not notice Hairalt abruptly bellowing at him in rage, or Junia's relieved exclamations, or the Librarian threatening permanent expulsion from the Library.

The young man _does_ notice Hairalt marching around the stacks of books, but only because Hairalt slams his hand down on the page the young man is reading with a roar, narrowly missing the man's exceedingly long nose, and tries to snatch the book away from him. The mage gives a cry of dismay and grabs hold of the disappearing tome, refusing to let go, and unfolds his limbs to a height that has him setting his lips stubbornly over two heads above Hairalt's. Only then does he notice the others in the room, and he blinks enormous dark eyes in total surprise.

Jon can laugh himself sick later when he tells Thayet about this, or with Cousin Gary, who is openly grinning while holding back a tiny and furiously spitting Librarian with one large hand. Right now he needs to act like a responsible King, so he raises his voice to Command Level, and his "SILENCE!" cuts off Hairalt in mid-bellow. He quickly follows up his advantage by ordering Hairalt to release the book, which the young man clutches to his chest. Jon then orders Cousin Gary and two guards to escort the two mages and the Librarian back to the audience chamber, where he can count on Cousin Gary to calm them down and smooth things over. The other two guards he orders to clear the Library and wait outside, and they are fast and efficient, leaving him alone with the mage who is staring at him uncertainly, holding the book as though he fears it might be taken away.

Jon is used to trusting his instincts, which are usually quite good when it comes to people, and this thin, bookish foreigner reminds him of the Mithran priest who used to teach his mathematics class. He was most likely quite brilliant but taught the class in a daze, with fits and starts of explanations that dangled and tangents that wandered, and solutions that didn't always answer the problem set out in the first place.

Jon adopts his I'm-Really-Just-A-Very-Nice-Guy manner, the one that works great on the palace help, most women, children and pets, and generally anyone who doesn't know him very well. "So," he says to the young man, tilting his head up a little to look him in the eye. "How do you like the Royal Libarary?"

The mage blinks a couple of times. "Oh, er," he says distractedly in a light, pleasant voice, "it's quite…nice—that is the selection is… well…"

"Quite poor compared to what you must be used to in Carthak," says Jon, taking pity on him, and very amused at the man's apparent inability to lie.

"Yes, well, somewhat," says the young man awkwardly. "That is to say…it's really not bad for a small kingdom—" The mage abruptly switches subject. "The Librarian didn't seem to want me to take any of the books off the shelves. I hope I haven't upset anyone."

"The Librarian's a bit possessive of his books," says Jon, "but there's no harm done."

The young man peers down at him from slightly stooped shoulders and blinks uncertainly.

"Are you the King?"

"Jonathan of Conte," says Jon easily. "You were to have had an audience with me this morning, but we can do it just as well here."

Jon pulls up a chair (one nicely padded, with the brocade worn on the armrests from years of use) and drapes himself comfortably in it with a sigh. Much better than the throne. The mage mirrors him from a foot away. He isn't so much taller than Jon when sitting down, but his legs seem to take up twice as much room as those of a normal man and his elbows stick out a lot. He rests the enormous tome in his lap.

Jon catches the gaze of the young man, who has been studying him back, and raises an eyebrow in inquiry.

"You're not what I was expecting," says the mage. "I didn't think you'd be so…" and he doesn't finish the thought.

Jon's heard a lot of variations on this: so young, so easy-going, so handsome, so approachable… all the things that imply he's not someone people see as a ruler fit to govern a kingdom that, for all the Carthaki's impression of it as small in comparison to the Empire, is one of the largest countries in the Eastern Lands.

Liking the man's awkward honesty, Jon gives him an obvious way out.

"So young?"

"No," says the mage, surprising him. He taps the book on his lap with long, thoughtful fingers. "Ozorne was just as young. I was going to say… personable maybe. Or sane."

Well. This is interesting. The man was apparently on a first-name basis with the Emperor of Carthak. If Jon hadn't already been intrigued, that would have done the trick. Sadly, this is not the first rumour Jon has heard doubting the sanity of the ruler of the largest and oldest empire in the Southern and Eastern Lands.

Jon gets the young man's story from him, bit by bit. He's the child of a Tyran merchant, he's 24 years old and a Black Robe Mage, which makes him the youngest Black Robe ever ordained by the Imperial Carthaki University by quite a bit, and he's spent the last nine years studying magic in the Capital. His name, improbably enough, is Numair Salmalin. The young man admits to choosing it himself, as is common practice amongst mages upon gaining Robe status.

Jon asks him if the name isn't a bit of a large fit. Salmalin unexpectedly says "Yes, it is, but I wanted to choose one that I'd have room to grow into."

Jon smiles, liking the answer. "I know what you mean. It sounds a lot like Kingship, actually."

Salmalin smiles back, a slightly crooked smile that lights up his face.

Jon's pleased to see him relaxed, and wants badly to know what kind of knowledge this unlikely man possesses about magic. He asks him what he was reading in the book that engrossed him so thoroughly.

At this, Salmalin's somewhat mild and sleepy gaze widens and fires up with enthusiasm. "Oh!" he says, "I found the most fascinating old volume chronicling the experiences of Kerewin the Seer during the War of the Clay Kingdoms, which was one of the volumes missing from an incomplete set in the Imperial Library in Carthak,…" and Salmalin is off to the races, long-fingered hands waving, rattling off four and five syllable words, lost in an academic fog.

Jon has great respect for people who choose to devote their lives to one particular vocation above all other concerns, having grown up surrounded by people consumed by various sorts of obsessions. He listens to Salmalin carefully, having done a lot of his own reading about magical theory in his spare time. He's heard of barely half the references Salmalin makes, and some of them are incredibly obscure. He does his best to follow the mage's train of thought, which is not just reiterating Kerewin's work, but extrapolating, comparing it to other mages of the time, to current theoreticians, and Salmalin's own theories on the bending of place and matter as affected by the use of a Word of Power, and what Jon can understand is both fascinating and frightening. He stops paying so much attention as Salmalin segues into an explanation of the colours of auras of non-human creatures, which apparently have their own, natural kind of magic, quite different from that of human magic, as he wants to follow his own train of thought.

The thing about Jon is he really likes people. A lot of people talk about him having charisma, or being a natural leader, when the truth is that he pays attention because he's really interested, because he actually does care, and people respond to that. As far as he's concerned, other people, _his_ people, are the best part of being a king; it's damn well not the paperwork, or the endless meetings and requests, or the public role that he needs to adhere to at all times.

A lot of kings tend to become collectors. It's a hobby. They collect exotic animals in a menagerie, or fantastic jewels, or hunting trophies, racehorses, galleries of portraits or mistresses.

Jon's really not interested in material possessions: he collects people.

You see, he and Thayet have a secret shared vision of what they want to accomplish during their reign that they don't speak of to anyone else. What they talk about late at night, quietly in bed, is a Golden Age for Tortall, a space of several decades where their kingdom is strong, secure, and prosperous; where knowledge and the arts flourish and the trade of ideas and people between other countries is commonplace; where even the poorest citizen in the land is educated and proud and able to choose their path in life. He and Thayet have no interest in being the kind of rulers who choke some of their people and step on the others for fear of losing their grip on power. No, they want to encourage their people to achieve their full potential in every sphere of life, making Tortall an example among the countries of the Free Lands.

For all that Thayet's upbringing and experiences have made her wary of people's motives and she thinks that Jon is trustingly naïve, she is every bit as idealistic as he. She is slowly winning over the many nobles who were opposed to a foreign queen and quietly championing the rights of commoners. Jon knows it's the same for her as him; they get out of bed each day full of optimistic energy for what can be accomplished. And it's started already. The slowly increasing trickle of escaped slaves from Carthak, looking for lives as free men and women. The burst of new Players and artists and poets taking up residence in the Lower City, hoping to attract the notice and patronage of the nobles and the Court. The exodus of several tribes of K'miri from their homeland seeking the royal protection Thayet can grant her people, choosing exile in Tortall over genocide and civil war. The Bazhir sending young men from the desert for the first time in history to serve the Kings of Tortall, uniting the kingdom at last in acknowledgement of Jon's status as the Voice of the Bazhir. It humbles Jon; the faith the Bazhir place in him, the faith shown by all the people who trust him to rule well and choose their future wisely; the smart and dedicated people who personally serve him and the kingdom with their work and lives every day in the Palace. Jon wants more than anything to be the King they deserve, to prove that their faith is not misplaced. Most days it's even something he thinks is possible.

And right now there's a warm feeling of satisfaction filling his chest, almost like the pleasant burn from a shot of good brandy, because some kind God or Goddess has gotten him an early birthday present, and has conspired to deposit the youngest Black Robe Mage in history in his Library.

Jon cuts Salmalin off in mid-flow. "How would you like to work for me?"

"Eh?" Salmalin blinks, one hand in mid-air.

"I'd like to offer you a position at my court as a mage in direct service to the Crown," Jon says. "You'd advise my Private Council and myself personally on matters to do with magic. You'd assist Dean Hairalt with the development of the Department of Magic at the Royal University. Of course, there will also be the Crown's support for you to pursue your own avenues of research. Oh, and yes," Jon adds with a hint of amusement, "the Royal Library is somewhat deficient in material relating to the study of magic. You would have the Crown's financial backing to set about identifying where the greatest omissions lie and to remedy the problem through new purchases. Does this interest you?"

Jon watches with entertainment as the mage goes positively starry-eyed at the mention of being given free rein to purchase books of magic. Jon enjoys making people happy. The power to do so is one of his favourite things about being king. But it turns out he's misjudged his man, because Salmalin's face abruptly falls.

"No, no. I'm sorry. I can't accept the position."

Is this a ploy to get better terms? Jon hadn't thought the mage to be that sort.

"Was my offer not generous enough?"

Salmalin looks distressed. "No, Your Majesty. The offer was more than generous. If circumstances were different… No, it's not possible. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."

And Salmalin's face sets in implacable lines that seem out of place with his gentle character. Jon has no doubt that like many seemingly quiet and distracted academics, Salmalin has a stubborn streak the size of the Emerald Ocean, and it will be next to impossible to change his mind once it's made up. Well then…

"I confess I'm a bit puzzled," Jon says mildly. "I was under the impression that you were here looking for employment. Was I misinformed?"

"No," says Salmalin, eyeing with disfavour the ragged cuff of his sleeve. The frayed ends are sticking out from the wrist of a jacket which is battered and too short in the arms. "I was hoping to be taken on in some capacity at the Royal University. I heard that the Department of Magic was looking for capable people to head up the new school. Research perhaps, or teaching—though I've never taught before—it's not exactly my strong point..."

The mage trails off and Jon eyes him thoughtfully. "So it's not working as a mage for Tortall you have an objection to: it's working for me."

Jon is pretty sure than underneath the dark complexion Salmalin is blushing.

"Your Majesty,—"

"How unflattering. And we've only just met. I usually make a much better impression on people. Was it something I said?"

Salmalin desperately stares at the giant book in his lap.

"Seriously man," Jon says, "all jokes aside, I have the feeling that there's something you're not telling me. Does it have anything to do with the fact that you're looking for work in Corus when you could have your pick of books and students in the Imperial City?"

The mage manages to look alarmed and stubborn and defensive all at once. "I desire a quiet life working as a private citizen in research, nothing more," he says.

"I see that it does," Jon says. "I don't know what it is that you could have heard about me to make you so mistrustful Salmalin, but I like to think of myself as a decent man and a fair King. I'd like the chance to address your worries, if I may, but I need your confidence first if I'm to have any hope of doing so."

"I've heard nothing to your disadvantage since coming to Tortall," says Salmalin, "in fact much to your credit. It's just that—…" He shifts a little in his seat. "What is your view on capital punishment?"

Salmalin is looking carefully at him with wary black eyes. Jon does not allow any of the consternation he is feeling to show on his face or in his voice as he answers.

"My view is that while I, personally, may find it distasteful, as a King is it regrettably sometimes necessary for the safety of the realm. However it is only to be used in the very last instance, and only in cases where an individual has knowingly caused or intends to cause great harm to the kingdom, such as high treason."

"So you wouldn't advocate the use of capital punishment for say, personal reasons, then?"

Jon is appalled, and hopes his sincerity will reach the mage.

"That is the worst possible use for capital punishment. The King must uphold the law through example. If I were to execute for treason those who fall foul of me for personal reasons, if I were to flout my own laws on a whim, what possible respect for the law could my subjects have? My Lords would seize the opportunity to pursue their own private vendettas through bloody means of the sort that fill history books and bad melodramas. If any sort of common justice is to prevail under my rule, there must be one set of laws that apply from the highest to the lowest in the land, including the King."

Salmalin looks relieved. "Oh, good. That's what I've always thought. It's clearly the reasonable way to run a kingdom."

"Why thank you," says Jon, amused once again by the man's complete lack of irony. "Perhaps now that you have my assurance that your personal safety is guaranteed, you'll tell me the story that I've been waiting so patiently to hear."

"Well, --er," says the mage, and gives in.

It turns out that Salmalin was a personal friend of the Emperor Mage of Carthak, by way of them being fellow students of magic at the Imperial University before Ozorne Taiskhe ascended the throne. A few months ago the new Emperor had Salmalin thrown in jail for high treason with execution looming over him. The reason was that Salmalin was the better mage of the two, and Taiskhe was extremely jealous of his status as "Emperor Mage."

"I never saw it coming," says Salmalin wretchedly. "People tried to warn me but I didn't believe them. It was such a stupid thing to care about—he was the _Emperor_. So what if I was a Black Robe? And… I thought he was my friend," he finishes, somewhat bitterly.

Apparently Salmalin had not been without supporters. Several of them had contrived, at great risk to themselves, to spring him from prison before he could be tortured or drawn and quartered. They had smuggled him out of the country by ship to Tortall, where he had arrived with little more than his life and the clothes on his back.

"That's quite the story," Jon says, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.

"Yes," says Salmalin, looking miserable.

The more Jon hears about the Emperor Mage of Carthak, the less he likes the man. As unsettling as Salmalin's story of personal betrayal may be, Jon's heard some truly horrific tales regarding the new Emperor from the escaped slaves to whom he has given sanctuary in Tortall. You'd think that having been made Emperor of the largest single territory in the Southern and Eastern Lands, Taiskhe would have more than enough work to keep himself occupied; consolidating his power base and addressing the massive inequalities in his realm. Apparently not, as the man seems to have ample spare time in which to persecute hapless people he personally dislikes, and to do his best to destabilize Jon's own kingdom. Well, Jon will have the last laugh by thwarting Taiskhe's plans, sheltering the people he drives away and making them his own, ruling a kingdom that plays by the rules—that _has_ rules!—and prospers from the labour of free citizens, not slaves, and by being an _all around better King._ Ha!

"So this decision not to work for the King of Tortall," Jon says.

"I took a vow," explains Salmalin self-consciously.

Jon waits.

"I swore to stay entirely away from Rulers and politics in the future," the mage says earnestly. "You see, had I known enough to avoid Ozorne's company when we were students, none of this would have happened! He would be the Emperor Mage, and I would be just another anonymous Robe, one of many who serve the Imperial Throne. I would never have attracted his favour, and so never could have lost it in turn. I wouldn't have ended up in a tiny cell in the Imperial Dungeons with no windows or sanitary facilities. And I would still be living a life of comfort and respect in the Imperial City with my study of books, my experiments and my assistant. So you see," Salmalin reasons happily, "the whole unfortunate incident could have been dispensed with had I simply minded my own business and kept to myself."

Jon asks, "And how is minding your own business working out for you?"

"It's slow going," admits the mage. "I keep submitting an application with a list of my qualifications to the Department of Magic, but no one ever gets back to me. I don't mean to criticize how things are run in Tortall, but I think they're rather disorganized."

More likely they thought the application was a student prank, thinks Jon wryly.

"I take it you've found some other means of support in the mean time," says Jon.

"Yes, --er. That is, I have," says the mage. "I'm currently working as a self-employed entertainer in the Lower City."

"Really," says Jon, diverted. "As a street magician, I take it? Pulling rabbits from hats and the like?"

"Not exactly," says Salmalin.

Jon looks on fascinated. Yes, it's not so easy to tell, but the man definitely _is_ blushing.

Salmalin blinks, glances away and then back again. He looks like he wants nothing more than for Jon to have disappeared.

"I've been working as a juggler," he says with great dignity.

"A juggler," repeats Jon, _not_ laughing at _all_.

"Yes."

"Is this one of your many skills?"

"I'm terrible at it actually," confesses Salmalin with embarrassment. "I keep dropping the balls all over the place."

Jon is torn between the desire to laugh and wanting to shake the man.

"Look Samalin," he says, "I appreciate how honest you've been with me and I'd like to return the favour. The thing is; I could really use you. You don't know how badly my kingdom is in need of your skills and knowledge. The job I offered you was no walk in the park. You see, magic use in Tortall has never been encouraged the way that it is in Carthak. The Empire has a long and venerable tradition established through the University of educated and scholarly mages, and those who are accepted to the Order are highly respected and rewarded for their talents. We badly need to standardize and legitimize the learning and use of magic in Tortall. Those who have training in this country range from local hedgewitches to the Priests; from the few nobles who bother to search out formal learning to the Healers. Many in Tortall still look askance at those who have the Gift—not just commoners, but nobles too. It will take time to change opinion."

"The first steps have been taken: a Department of Magic is one of the schools attached to the new Royal University. It's being integrated with the strong Healing tradition that already exists in Corus. I believe that much of the stigma attached to the Gift will be overcome once people see how valuable the mages that graduate from the school are in service to the realm, and that they are appropriately rewarded. Once that happens, parents—commoner and noble alike—will start to voluntarily send their Gifted children to be educated as mages and Healers. I hope to have a magic tradition in Tortall in the future that rivals the one in Carthak."

"It's still early days yet, however. Things are haphazard enough that _I_ am one of the strongest and most educated mages in Tortall. It's a sad day for learning when a King, who must of necessity be a dilettante in all things but ruling, is the self-taught expert on theoretical magic in his realm. I have good mages such as Hairalt, who is invaluable, but his skills lie in doing, not in theory. Do you see why I need you? You bring all the learning tradition of the mages of Carthak that we lack. Furthermore, I need someone who will be loyal to myself and to the realm; someone who has no designs on my throne. We lost the three strongest and best-educated mages in my kingdom a year ago when there was an attempt on my life: all of them are dead. And finally, the Emperor Mage of Carthak has barely come to power himself, and is already trying to grab pieces of Tortall. If it comes to all-out war, it is not his legions of soldiers we need fear most; it is his war-mages, the Red Robes. Having an advisor who knows the kind of tactics these mages employ and what can be done to counter them could mean the difference between keeping and losing my kingdom."

Samalin, who has been following all this keenly, looks a little overwhelmed.

"Your Majesty, I appreciate your confidence, but I'm not sure that I'm the person you want for the job. People put great value on the knowledge that comes with being a Black Robe, but the truth is that much of it is so specialized or esoteric that it has little practical use." He falters a little. "I wore the Robe, but I couldn't even get myself out of jail when my life depended on it. I'd be in pieces all over Ozorne's battlements by now if my friends hadn't come to my rescue."

Jon regards the mage thoughtfully, taking his time.

"What you say may be true, but I think your lack of faith in the value of your knowledge and skills is undeserved. You need to look past what your life as a Black Robe was in Carthak to what it can be in Tortall. The life you led as a sheltered academic meant that it was never necessary for you to be practical. It doesn't mean that this is something you can't still learn. With the free-for-all state of magic here, it's likely that in service to this realm you'll be called upon to do all sorts of things that in Carthak would have seemed unimaginable. If Carthak was your education, then Tortall can be the place where you put your knowledge to the test; where you can come up with your own solutions to problems that Carthaki mages have never faced."

Salmalin appears to be thinking things over.

"But what about my vow," he finally says. "You're asking me to break my word?"

Jon stares a bit. "You don't think you could make an exception this once?"

"Just joking," says Salmalin, and gives his crooked smile.

Jon stares some more.

"You seemed to be getting in all the jokes," Salmalin says. "I thought I should even things out a bit."

Jon starts to laugh. "So you do have a sense of humour! I was beginning to wonder."

Salmalin grins, eyes gleaming. "My assistant used to schedule it in for me. One joke a week, after lunch and before midday experiments. Otherwise I tend to forget."

And Jon is abruptly pleased, because as well as an asset to the Kingdom, this man has the makings of a real friend.

"Come on," Jon says, standing up and stretching. "I hope you've had enough of the Royal Library for the moment. I'd like to introduce you to my wife."

Cousin Gary will give him grief about schedules and responsibilities and the immutability of Lists, but there's nothing in this afternoon's duties that can't be put off for a few hours. Because some things are just too good to keep to himself. He's already anticipating Thayet's reaction to their newest subject, Salmalin the juggling Black Robe.

"Oh, but—" Salmalin looks at the books, clearly torn.

Jon eyes the stacks of books, teetering over multiple tables. He'll have to find a way to make it up to the Librarian somehow.

"I'll just have those sent up to your new quarters, shall I?"

"That would be wonderful!" exclaims Salmalin, unfolding himself from the chair to his ungainly height, "and a good store of candles as well, the slow burning kind—"

He _finally_ puts down the enormous tome he's held the entire time, and consents to being steered towards the door by Jon's hand under his elbow, talking all the while.

"—and you have no idea how much I've missed books!—I hadn't thought it possible until I got to Tortall with none, and no money to buy any; and no one in the Lower City seems to read at all. Did you know that most of them are illiterate?—and it's been _months_ now—I really thought I might go mad!—Where did you say we were heading?"

"To the stables."

"Her Majesty likes to ride?"

"You could say that," says Jon, fondly amused. "Actually my Queen's training her Riders just beyond the Palace grounds. Teaching them K'miri war-cries and the best way to fall off a galloping horse, no doubt."

"Oh," says Salmalin, baffled. Jon makes a mental note to get the mage an assistant; one who will make sure the man stops reading long enough to eat and bathe and show up for the occasional meeting. Remembering Junia's behaviour towards the Black Robe, he amends it to _male_ assistant, or else the man will be married inside of six weeks with no idea how it happened.

As he leads the bemused mage out of the Royal Library, nodding at the stoic guards on the way, Jon thinks to himself that it's turning out to be another one of those days where it's really, really good to be him.

* * *

Fin 


End file.
